RISE OF THE DEMON KING

Episode two: The betrayal

“Let me go!” The words blurted out twisted, high, shaking, more a plea than a command. And really, he wasn’t the one who needed saving. “That’s my sister! You can’t just…she’s sick, the ritual will kill her. Don’t any of you understand what the Sacred Vessel ritual actually does…?”

Elder Dorn’s voice sliced through it all cold, sharp, absolute. The same old man Keris used to drag firewood to every winter, who’d patched up cuts on his hands and said things like, “You’ve got good, steady bones for hard work.” But now Dorn’s face was something new, nothing like anger. Just calculation. Hard, icy math.

“Elder Dorn…” Keris froze, clinging to one last scrap of foolish hope. “Tell them. Tell them to let her go. You’ve known us forever. She can hardly walk half the mornings. How in the world could she be a sacred vessel…?”

“The village has been chosen for imperial favor, boy.” Dorn’s voice was flat, empty, every word sounding practiced. He wasn’t even talking to Keris, not really. “Do you understand what that means? No taxes for ten years. Soldiers to keep raiders away. Extra grain through the winters.” He glanced at the platform, barely even looked at Alba. “One sick girl’s life for four hundred people. It’s simple arithmetic.”

Keris took a stumbling step back, the words hitting harder than any blow. The men holding him struggled to keep their grip.

“She’s not a number,” Keris whispered, and his voice cracked wide open. “She’s twelve.”

Dorn didn’t blink. “You’ve made enough trouble for one day.” He nodded to the men holding Keris, and to a couple more villagers, faces closed off, already looking past him, past what they were about to do. “Hold him. If the mages want him quiet, make him quiet.”

“Dorn.” Keris’s voice broke, shaking, all anger gone, just raw, pleading. “You used to let me sit in your lap. You told me a man’s worth was measured by who he protected, not what he owned. Was that a lie, or does that only matter when the crown doesn’t pay for it?”

For a breath, Dorn wavered, not guilt exactly, but something like regret flickered behind his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that dead-eyed calculation.

“The world’s not kind to feelings, boy,” Dorn said, and for once the words sounded almost like an apology. “Four hundred souls. I can’t risk them for a single girl, no matter what I might wish.” He turned his back, raising his voice for the mages on the platform. “See that he stays out of the way.”

The men locked their hold tighter. Fenn, Keris’s old friend, the boy he’d fished with every summer, grabbed his legs tight. Fenn wouldn’t look at him. None of them would. Not the baker, not the miller’s wife, not any of the faces he’d grown up with. Right then, Keris knew, right in his gut, that every person here had already decided Alba’s life was a fair price.

He fought anyway. Something in him just snapped, no more begging, no more words. He clawed and thrashed toward the platform, all teeth and fury, while four grown men pinned him down. He managed to tear one hand free, grabbed Dorn’s collar, almost believing just for a wild second that he could break through…

A blow slammed into the back of his skull. Heavy. Wood or iron, he never saw it. The world lurched sideways, full of white noise.

He hit the ground. Blood filled his mouth. Through the ringing in his ears, Keris heard Alba scream his name, really scream, shattering and terrified, the first sound she’d made since the ceremony started. He tried to crawl toward her voice, arms thrown up over his head as blows rained down—back, ribs, shoulders.

“Keris!”

He managed a last look, Alba on her feet, being dragged by two of the mages, twisting back, crying, her face gray with exhaustion. She was still trying to say his name when a gloved hand clamped down over her mouth.

I’m sorry, he thought. I’m so sorry, I tried, Someone’s boot crashed into his ribs. The pain faded, unimportant now. All he could see was his sister, swallowed by a ring of violet robes.

Before the darkness took him, he heard Elder Dorn’s voice, steady and cold, giving the order.

“Waste not,” Dorn said, satisfied now. “The mages said they need a second body for the binding circle. Seems fate’s answered.”

Keris drifted in and out, dragged over rocks, firelight swimming through the dark, voices fading as the crowd dispersed now that the show was over. Somebody pulled him down stone steps, deeper and deeper, further than he knew the shrine even went. He fought the blackness every time, desperate not to waste another second, every breath not spent fighting was a breath he wasn’t protecting Alba. His battered body couldn’t keep up. The last thing he heard before the darkness took him for good was the sound of great stone doors grinding open… and, somewhere ahead in that pitch black, the faintest echo of Alba crying his name.

The cold stone against his cheek was the first thing Aerisfelt did. The second was the unmistakable, bone-deep ache of a body that had been beaten and dragged rather than carried.

He opened his eyes to torchlight and dripping water and the low, resonant hum of active magic, a sound like a held breath that never released. Iron shackles bit into his wrists, chained to a ring set into the wall of what could only be the ritual chamber: a circular room carved deep beneath the village shrine, its floor etched with concentric rings of silver script that pulsed faintly, like something breathing.

At the center of those rings stood a stone altar.

And on the altar, wrists and ankles bound with glowing runic cord, lay Alba.

"Alba!”

His voice came out ragged, torn raw from screaming himself unconscious. He lurched against the chains, and pain lanced up both arms, but he didn't stop pulling.

“Alba, look at me, I’m here, I’m right here….”